“Have you seen a change in colors? Do they appear more vibrant?”
“Just a bit,” Jack said. They were more brilliant than at any time in his life.
“Do you hear any high-pitched whine, white noise? Has your hearing grown more acute?”
“A bit,” Jack answered like a bored patient.
“Have you…” She paused, almost afraid to ask. “seen things?”
Jack turned away, thinking, remaining silent. He had avoided certain things for a reason. His silence ended her line of questioning.
A smile suddenly blossomed on Emily’s face, as if she had become a different person. She reached across the white blanket and took his left arm, examining the bandage. It was thick, wrapping his arm from elbow to wrist “How did you get this?”
Jack stared at her, afraid to say that he had no idea. “I’m not really sure.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s a tattoo.”
“Really?”
Again, Jack remained silent.
“Are you sure?” Emily spoke to him as if to a child.
“Ryan?” Jack looked to his friend. “This is bullshit.”
“I know,” Ryan said as he laid a hand on Emily’s shoulder, a subtle indication to slow down. “We’re just talking, that’s all.”
The two doctors paused, building up to something.
“Jack, we believe the tumor is pressing on an area of your cerebral cortex,” Emily said. “It might be from the impact of the accident or just the natural progression of growth. It may be causing you to either pass out or lose bits of memory or…”
She looked at Ryan, passing the baton.
“It might be causing you to imagine or see things,” Ryan said quietly.
Jack looked between the two doctors. “You think this is all a delusion? You think I’m running around chasing ghosts?” Jack tried to flex his restrained wrist. “You think I wrote this fucking thing on my arm?”
“Jack.” Ryan tried to calm his friend.
“Don’t you dare Jack me. Yeah, I’ve got cancer, but I’m not crazy.”
“Jack,” Emily said softly, trying to calm him.
“My body may be failing, but not yet. Don’t you dare tell me I’m going crazy or dying, because I don’t give a shit how long I live, as long as it’s long enough to find my wife and catch the son of a bitch who has her.”
“Sometimes when hit with a tragedy,” Emily said as she rubbed Jack’s foot, “we imagine things, fantasize about ways to save the one we lost, bring them back from the dead. With where the tumor is located combined with the stress and anxiety over Mia, this may be occurring.”
“What are you saying?”
“Is it possible,” Ryan asked sympathetically, “that maybe you’ve been imagining things? Could Mia have gone over the bridge with you in the car?”
“Absolutely not,” Jack shot back.
“Our memory is a tricky thing,” Emily said. “Often, we rewrite our recollections to make them more ideal than the actual occurrence, seeing ourselves as heroes, forcing our minds to paint a more ideal picture than what was witnessed. You said that your mind was blank until it was triggered by her perfume. Could your mind be blocking out her death in favor of hope?”
“No, she’s alive, dammit, I feel it.” Jack said through gritted teeth, although fear began to creep into his soul. “I spoke to her, for Christ’s sake.”
“Is it possible that this case you’ve been chasing after,” Emily added, “all of your running around trying to find her, is just you not dealing with her death?”
The door opened, and Tierney poked his head in. “We need to talk.”
“It can wait.” Ryan didn’t turn to acknowledge his presence
“No, it can’t.”
Tierney and McCourt stood in the hallway.
“I don’t have time to be playing around here,” Tierney said. “I’ve got eight dead and the world calling me for answers.”
“That is my patient in there, and this takes time. If you push me, I’ll postpone my findings until morning.”
“You listen to me-”
“No, you listen to me,” McCourt said. “Remember, you called me down here as his friend and physician to help you deal with a situation. If you want to tell me what’s going on, if you want to give me a question or two, I’ll get you answers. But that’s your only option.”
Tierney calmed himself and finally spoke. “Is he crazy?”
“Why would you ask a question like that?”
Tierney handed Ryan four files, labeled Nowaji Cristos, James Griffin, Mia Keeler, Jack Keeler. Ryan looked at the first, James Griffin, and he felt his heart collapse.
As the seconds ticked by, Jack tried to avoid looking at Emily, who sat at the edge of his bed.
Finally, the door opened and Ryan stepped back into the room. His face had gone ashen.
“Ryan,” Jack demanded, “what the hell is going on?”
“Jack…” Ryan said. “Jimmy Griffin’s body was found last night. He was tortured. Every finger, every bone in his left hand, was snapped in two, a slow, methodical torture.”
Jack was lost for words.
“After they failed to get what they needed from him, they went for Mia; you were collateral damage.”
“He’s not dead,” Jack shot back. “I saw him. I spoke to him.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Ryan said gently.
“Of course I’m sure. I spoke to him for at least fifteen minutes.”
“Had you ever met the man? Do you know what he looks like? Are you sure it was him and not someone setting you up?”
Jack’s breathing quickened. In all honesty, he had no idea. “Ryan, what the hell is going on?”
“Relax, Jack. I’m a friend, remember that.”
“Friends don’t have to remind friends.”
“You know what I’m saying. I’m talking to you instead of you talking to them.” Ryan pointed toward the door. “I’m your doctor and your… well, you know.”
“Can you loosen these straps?” Jack asked.
Ryan looked to Emily, who sat in silence, her hand never leaving Jack. She subtly nodded.
Ryan leaned over to unfasten the metal clasps of the strap around his chest and the Velcro leather straps around his wrists. “Tell me about this guy Cristos.”
Jack took a deep breath, waving his arms around in momentary relief. “Did they tell you about him? His background? Our background?”
“Yeah, Tierney just explained it to me. It’s all in this.” Ryan held up a thick manila file.
“He has Mia.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me. But more important, I spoke to Mia. She told me, dammit.”
Ryan sat on the bed, rubbed his face, gathering himself. “And you saw him? This Cristos?”
Jack nodded. “I did a lot more than see him.”
“I heard.” Ryan paused. “More than a year ago, you convicted this guy of murder, sought and got the death penalty. You were the last person he spoke to. He asked for you. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing. He just spoke about life, the weather… and death.”
“What did he say? Can you remember?”
Jack remembered… death is not always final, not always permanent; death is never the end. And as he thought on those words, pondering them in the context of his current conversation, he realized that from Ryan’s perspective, they might take on a whole new meaning. “I don’t remember.”
